


Will Be

by pluckybucky



Series: Another Time, Another World [3]
Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/pseuds/pluckybucky
Summary: There is a better world.





	Will Be

Cliff and Larry have just begun a new world together, eyes on each other forever. 

 

In the real world, they are still apart just as before. 

 

There’s a particular moment on Danny Street. 

 

Meaningless nothings, Cliff and Larry wander down the sidewalk side by side, shoulders nearly grazing the other, eyes set on the ground. Jane is with Rita, Vic is talking with Danny, and Cliff and Larry are alone together. In the past world, shortly after Cliff said the words that choked him for so long to Larry, things simply carried on. On the outside, nothing had really changed. Cliff still spoke with a certain kind of bluster, and Larry was prone to sarcastic retorts, just as before, but inside, though bandages, and through ruined metal, both stood close, yet forever apart, and now, here they are, standing close, yet still forever apart. As they walk, they don’t speak, and Cliff’s eyes wander downwards, Larry’s hand swaying along carelessly as they walk, coat flowing behind him gracefully. Larry’s hand, open and alone, causing Cliff’s own hand to twitch, fingers itching closer and closer. Cliff says ‘I love you.’ and Larry has yet to say those words back, words choking Larry eternally, forever scarred. 

 

Yet, here they are, Cliff’s hand twitching closer.

 

Metal meets fabric so gently, so delicately, Larry doesn’t seem to process it at first. Cliff’s hand wraps itself around Larry’s, giving it a kind squeeze, thumb running over Larry’s palm, and as Larry comes to see this, he looks at Cliff, head still hung low, expression forever still, eyes centered on their hands, never to speak. Larry freezes, shoulders stiffening, back straightening, jaw grinding, eyes behind goggles widening. Seconds after Cliff touches Larry, Larry shatters. He pulls away, tugging his hand away from Cliff’s grasp. 

 

“No,” He says, voice weak, quiet, powerful, a bullet to Cliff’s core. A touch so small, yet terrifying Larry, overwhelmed by the tiny gesture. 

 

Cliff blinks, eyelids clicking against metal. He shrinks, shoulders hunching more, and he drifts a tiny bit farther away from Larry. “Sorry,”

 

It’s like that a lot, Cliff realizes. 

 

Larry has always been more closed off than the others, locked away in a long coat and bandages, hiding away the face Cliff has never seen. Cliff could laugh, he loves Larry, yet he has never even seen the man without the mask. Weeks after Cliff’s confession, and Cliff is still forbidden from reaching out, forbidden from touching Larry, forbidden to speak out loud what he means. Larry doesn’t want him to, anxiety and fear digging it’s claws into Larry’s back and never letting go, Larry spits venom because that’s all he knows how to do now. 

 

And Cliff, before the metal, before the Doom Patrol, Clifford Steele was a loud, forward man. He was never a formal lover, he didn’t try to put on a mask that wasn’t him. He stayed true to who he was. When he looked at Kate, he picked her up, spin her around, arms around her waist, still human. ‘I love you,’ He’d yell, squeezing the life out of her, ‘Goddamn, I love you,’ and he’d kiss her sweetly, sloppily, but real, human. He could never deal with rules, restrictions, a painting in a gallery never to be touched, and Cliff would reach without a second thought. Cliff needs to be able to show, never tell. Without it, he’s confused.

 

He isn’t used to this.

 

He wants to pick Larry up, spin him around, arms around his waist, never human, and yell ‘I love you,’ but he knows he will never get the chance. Larry stares at him, an island away, and Cliff simply has to accept that. Larry isn’t ready. 

 

But god damn, is it hard. 

 

So, he slips up. He makes these mistakes, reaching for Larry’s hand, touching Larry’s shoulder tenderly, any sort of contact, he craves. He can’t feel Larry, he never will be able to, but something drives him to be affectionate, to show people his love without saying words. He’s never been good at words, saying the things he wants, unable to ever do so, he can never say the words he wants, and so he touches. Without touch, Cliff can’t speak, and so, Cliff and Larry stand there, stars apart, both unable to speak, and both incapable of touch.

 

It’s sobering, to Cliff, as he realizes their differences, and fears incompatibility. 

 

So, when the team goes home, back to Doom Manor, and everyone slips into their rooms, Cliff nearly heads to Larry’s room, the metal door standing above all others, domineering and threatening, but Cliff doesn’t do that. He goes into his room, still echo-y, still two rooms forced to be one, and he digs. Metal hands clasp around a dusty box in the corner of the room, keepsakes and paraphernalia alike as he rummages through it. He doesn’t have much anymore, only gifts, useless junk, anything Cliff doesn’t want to be seen. Creaky metal clings to a VHS tape, the glow of his eyes reflecting off the sleek, untitled tape. It was a gift from the Chief, a recording of one of Cliff Steele’s victories on the race track. An old one, the memory is faded and not his. It could be the one that kickstarted Cliff’s career, or it could be the race where he almost died, he doesn’t remember, but it’s the only thing he has. Cliff doesn’t know what Larry looks like, and Larry doesn’t know what Cliff looks like. Cliff concludes it’s only fair that Larry learn that Cliff was once an ugly bastard. 

 

Meanwhile, Larry dreams a world where he isn’t afraid. 

 

The next day goes by without anything happening. 

 

It’s night time when Cliff knocks on Larry’s door. 

 

When Larry opens the door, Cliff’s leaning over him, one arm resting on the door frame, the other on his waist. “Hey,” Cliff says, voice low. 

 

“What.” Larry responds, tone dry.

 

Cliff blinks, and without any lungs, awkwardly coughs as he stops doing that pose, stepping back and letting his arms fall to his sides. “Uh, can I show you something?”

 

Larry slips out of the room, shutting the door behind him, vacant lenses staring through Cliff. “Sure, I don’t have anything better to do.” 

 

Cliff wants to smile. “Great, cool, uh, come downstairs. It’s on the TV,” 

 

So, Cliff leads Larry downstairs to the living room, empty and free, towards the television, dated but functional. When Larry sits down on the couch nearby, he tilts his head. “What is it that you’re showing me, Cliff?” 

 

Cliff lifts the VHS tape into his large hand, presenting it. “I, uh, want you to know what I looked like, before the accident, back when I wasn’t, you know,” 

 

Larry sits back, hands in his lap. “You were a race car driver, right?”

 

Cliff nods, stiff and mechanical. “Yeah, I was.” 

 

So, Cliff slips the tape into the VCR, and both have their eyes filled with static. Cliff backs away slowly, falling back onto the couch next to Larry, and the television suddenly comes to life. Everything is low quality, the audio destroyed and distorted, but watchable. The announcer says things nobody can decipher, and people crowd into their cars, the track never-ending and infinite, the audience screaming.  The year is 1985, and Cliff Steele is alive. 

 

“That’s me!” Cliff announces, pointing at a blurry figure drowning in static, approaching an orange and blue car, decorated in product placement. 

 

“I can’t see anything, Cliff,” 

 

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, they interview me, I remember this now. You’ll see my close-up soon,”

 

When the cars finally take off, Larry’s staring at the eagle-eyed shot of the track, the cars going around, and around, and around, forever and forever on. The announcer keeps speaking, but it’s all fuzz.

 

“That red car, that’s that motherfucker Jake Williams. I remember that guy. Real asshole, really would’ve loved to knock his teeth out, but, y’know, bad publicity to be literally knocking out the competition.” Cliff explains, but Larry isn’t listening. Around, and around, the race car speeds by. 

 

Cliff Steele wins the grand prix in 1985. The product placement decorated car screeches to a halt, and soon the other cars follow suit. There’s a fade to a crowd shot, an endless sea of faces rising and cheering, and then, a fade to the real action. People in jumpsuits, reporters, anything crowd around Cliff Steele’s car, the cameraman filming this not too far behind the crowd. The announcer says Cliff’s name, horribly mangled and distorted, and then Cliff Steele pulls himself out of the car. 

 

Larry finds himself leaning closer and closer to the television, arms resting on his knees, back leaned forward. 

 

With a close-up shot, the static fades away, and Cliff Steele waves all around him, wrapped in a jumpsuit that matches his car, blue with a white streak around the waist, Cliff backs up into the crowd, still waving, he tugs off his helmet, throwing it down onto the ground and looking all around, brown hair down to his neck, blowing in the wind, a heavy built figure in a blue jumpsuit, Cliff Steele celebrates his victory. Larry stares, Cliff’s eyes are squinted nearly shut as he grins, laugh lines distinct on his face, his smile wide and handsome, Larry thinks. Cliff appears tall, tough, confident. People in similar colored jumpsuits and hats pat Cliff on the shoulder, congratulating him, and Cliff continues smiling, the no-talent boy from Florida finally making his mark, proving to his family that he could be better than them.

 

A reporter and the cameraman crowd around Cliff, allowing Larry to get a closer look, blue, tired eyes look at the reporter as she shoves a microphone into his face. Cliff’s brow twitches, nostrils flared, adrenaline pumping. “How does it feel to win?” Larry assumes the woman asks, the voice too distorted to make out. 

 

Cliff Steele just laughs, clear as day, he laughs, “Feels pretty damn good,” Cliff Steele says, the only voice not ruined by age. It’s distinctly Cliff, yet alien, no mechanical echo, only human, still human. 

 

A woman emerges from the crowd, curled, frizzy blonde hair held back with a hairband, an infant in her arms. The woman is wrapped up in the usual 80’s get-up, a tight outfit, and large distracting earrings. She approaches Cliff Steele, smiling just as wide as him. They look at each other, and they kiss, Cliff’s human hands on her face, nothing more than a ghost only remembered on television and VHS tapes. The cameraman pulls away from the family, back towards the reporter.

 

“With Clifford Steele’s victory, he celebrates with his loving wife and daughter. I think I speak for all of us when I say; Cliff Steele is a national hero today.” 

 

In this world, Cliff Steele is not a man anymore.

 

The tape ends, and static fills the room.

 

Larry looks at Cliff, and Cliff is motionless, no breathing, no smile, no family, Cliff stares, static reflecting on his ruined, metal face, red eyes staring at the television.

 

Cliff can’t speak. He forgot most of the race. He wanted to watch just the race, maybe an interview. Seeing Kate, and baby Clara, he shatters. He can’t cry.

 

Larry stares at Cliff, goggles filled with the static from the TV, face unchanging, yet conveying so much more. Larry sometimes forgets that everyone in this home had a life, like him, they had a life, and they lost everything. Cliff Steele was a somebody, now a nobody, and Larry Trainor is the same. Larry notices Cliff’s bouncing knee, mechanical stress in his joints as it goes up and down, up and down. 

 

Larry’s hand finds it’s way to Cliff’s, palm against palm, Larry gives Cliff’s hand a squeeze, the metal somehow warm in his touch, the difference in hand sizes staggering. Larry leans to the side, resting his head on Cliff’s shoulder, stiff and trying, and Cliff leans too, resting his head on Larry’s. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Larry says. They aren’t the words Cliff needs to hear. “I’m sorry, Cliff.”

 

Cliff needs to hear ‘I love you,’ but he knows he will never hear it said back to him.

 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Larry asks, and Cliff can’t speak, only nodding.

 

So, in Larry’s room, in Larry’s small bed, Cliff lays on his back, and Larry rests against him, hand on Cliff’s chest. 

 

In another world, Cliff would fuck his pain away, never speaking, only touching. In this world, Cliff can’t even feel Larry’s hand on his chest, and it’s cruel, and it’s fucked up, some sick and twisted world, he says ‘I love you,’ and God says ‘Fuck you, too,’ and rips his heart out, wiring and flesh together, rotting and mechanical, forever ruined, never to be perfect again, never America’s hero again, just some rusted machine who can’t fuck away the pain. 

 

“I love you,” Cliff eventually says, voice quiet, gentle, broken, and Larry only nods, head against Cliff’s chest, no heartbeat, only a machine’s siren song bringing him to sleep.

 

Cliff still dreams. One last shred of humanity, do androids dream of electric sheep, he once saw in a library in high school. He never read it, and he had forgotten the book entirely, but now, in this world, he remembers useless bits and pieces, fragments that don’t mean anything, memories and dreams mix together uselessly. In his dreams, he’s human, sometimes he’s not, but usually he’s human. He still remembers what it feels like to feel. ‘Cliff,’ He hears Larry say, moan, Cliff doesn’t exist in his own body, like some projection, eyes float above himself, pounding into a body without a face. ‘Oh, Cliff,’ Larry keeps saying, preaching, a fake Larry not afraid of being touched. ‘I love you,’ Larry says, ‘I love you, Cliff,’ flesh against flesh, flesh against metal, flesh against flesh, heat, heat, hot, wet, hot, heat, mechanical burning, it burns, metal burning in a fire, metal burning against flesh, flesh against flesh, Larry’s chest heaves, fingers digging into Cliff’s metal, flesh back, crescent shaped creases in his skin, ‘Cliff, harder,’ Cliff doesn’t exist in his own body, and it’s hot, and everything is happening at once, Cliff fucks a body called Larry, no distinguishing face, no features, just a body. Cliff doesn’t exist, and yet he does, metal and flesh, flashing until Cliff’s head hurts, hurts, drumming, burning, hurting, he’s watching himself have sex with somebody without a face, just bandages, goggles for eyes, too fast, too hard, too hot, everything is happening, and everything is spinning, and everything is happening, mechanical squeaking sounding like the squeak of a bed. 

 

Cliff wakes up, viewing life through a screen. His head doesn’t hurt anymore, he can’t feel anything because he is a robot, and robots can’t feel.

 

Larry’s gone, and Cliff is alone in Larry’s room. 

 

His mind is racing. He sits up, throwing his legs over the bed to place his feet onto the ground, but he doesn’t dare get up. His mind is racing, and he can’t think clearly. That dreams fucked him up good, and now he’s suffering, he can’t tell if he can feel, or not, the ghost of touch lingering in his head, he remembers what it feels like, sex, hugging, kissing, he remembers and some phantom lingers on. He touches his chest, metal and unmoving, running his fingers over each bolt, he can’t feel, yet he can, and it’s mental torture. He finally rises from his seat, and on a dresser stands a mirror, and Cliff stares at himself, red eyes on red eyes, Cliff looks at himself, jaw slacking. He walks forward, robotic, inhuman, stiff, he approaches himself in the mirror, and he stares. 

 

“Fuck,” Cliff snarls, “Fucking shit,” 

 

He rips his jacket off, throwing it to the ground, and he looks at his arms, fake and metal. Wrapping his fingers around the brim of his shirt, he attempts to tug it off as well. “Fuck!” He yells, stumbling back as he nearly gets himself trapped in his own shirt. He ends up ripping it entirely, not caring as he throws it onto the ground. He looks himself in the mirror again. His chest is flat, completely, completely flat, like some kind of fucking box, no pecs, no abs, just flatness, bolts and scratches, he isn’t real, not a real man. He sheds the last article of clothes, his ripped jeans, the easiest article of clothing to remove, and he’s nude, no dick, no heart, no skin, no toes, no fingernails, no teeth, only machine, like some kind of talking mannequin, nothing real. 

 

“Fuck,” Cliff says, “Fuck! Fucking- Fucking-” He shakes his head back and forth, mechanical strain making itself known as he jerks his head around. “Fuck,” He screams, “God fucking dammit,” He stumbles back, and back, and back, and his back hits a metal wall, a loud clang in the room, and he lets himself fall to the ground, head still jerking back and forth, back and forth, not real, never real, never human. 

  
  
  


Larry hears the commotion upstairs. 

 

“Oh no,” He croaks, rising from his seat.

 

Larry falls back into his seat like a corpse, limp and unmoving, as his heart escapes him.

  
  
  
  


Cliff, naked and pathetic, hides in a ball of his own shame, surrounded by clothes that cover nothing, because he has nothing. 

 

“Fuck,” He stammers, “Shit,” 

 

The blue figure filled with television static phases into existence, hovering over Cliff. 

 

Cliff looks up, and slams his head against the wall. “Fuck!” He screams. “What the fuck do you want from me?” 

 

The spirit floats. 

 

And Cliff, defeated, goes back to hiding his fake face. “I can’t do shit. I can’t do the only things I know how to do. I can’t fuck, I can’t kiss, I can’t fucking feel, and that’s all I know how to do. I can’t be,” Cliff’s ranting, and the spirit floats. “I can’t fucking be romantic, or good, or love somebody right, and Larry can’t even say ‘I love you’,  and the only way I know how to love is gone, and I’m talking to a fucking, fucking, blue, fucking glowing, FUCK!” Cliff’s fist hits the wall, another loud metallic clang, a wall that would’ve had a hole in it if not for being metal. His head begins to jerk around again, and he’s trembling.

 

The spirit floats, and Cliff looks up at it. “I just want to feel something, anything, I need to feel alive,” 

 

The spirit reaches down, and Cliff watches it. Cliff is trembling, and he’s stuttering.

 

Brilliant blue against ruined rusted bronze, hand reaching out, and Cliff can’t escape, the hand reaches out and tenderly touches Cliff’s hollow skull.

 

Red eyes turn black, and he slumps forward.

  
  
  


Cliff opens the front door to the outside world, sun on his face, birds chirping. He walks down the stairs, onto the lawn. He turns around, staring back at a manor that isn’t real, isn’t right. Kate stares at him.

 

“You are real,” She says. “You need to accept that.” 

 

Cliff stares at her. 

 

“And you are loved, and you are capable of loving.”  

 

She steps close to him.

 

“You need to talk to him.”

 

Her eyes were blue, but they’re brown now, not right, not correct, but her voice is identical, real, and she reaches out and touches his chest, and he can feel it, and it fills him with static electricity, filling his eyes, his ears, he melts into the feeling.

 

The spirit pulls it’s hand away, and Cliff wakes up. 

 

“Holy shit.” Cliff says, and the spirit stares at him, and then leaves, abandoning him on the floor.

  
  
  


When Larry’s heart returns, he sharply inhales, snapping upright to life, exhaling with nostrils flared. “He better be safe,” He tells the thing, touching his chest, “Promise me he’s safe,” He forces himself out of the chair, and sprints upstairs, coat flowing behind him, chest glowing as an answer.

 

When Larry opens his door, Cliff’s there, standing tall, metal shining in the dim light, red, piercing eyes on him. 

 

Cliff takes a step forward. “Larry, I need to talk to you,” 

 

Larry shuts the door behind him. “Are you alright, Cliff? Where are your clothes?”

 

Cliff blinks. “That’s-That’s not important, I just, I need to talk, and I need you to listen.”

 

Larry doesn’t respond, so Cliff takes that as an okay to continue. 

 

“I love you, I love you so much, Larry, but,” Cliff is motionless. “I can’t, I need you, I need you to,” Cliff pauses.

 

“What?” Larry croaks out.

 

“I need you to say ‘I love you,’ back. I need to know I can be loved, Larry, but,” 

 

Larry’s eyes are wide.

 

“If you say it, if you mean it, you need to know that I can’t be a right lover. I can’t feel, Larry, I can’t,” He gestures at himself, bare features and all. “I’m showing you the real me, Lar. I need to know if this is what you want.” 

 

In a perfect world, Larry would have his lips against Cliff’s sweetly.

 

But, in this world, Larry can’t kiss Cliff.

 

Larry steps forward, each step he takes, another memory plays in his head, every time Cliff said ‘I love you.’ and Larry never said it back.

 

He takes Cliff’s metal hand into two bandaged palms. “I want you, Cliff,” 

 

Larry slowly lifts Cliff’s hand to Larry’s face, placing a metal palm against a bandaged cheek. He lifts his own hand away and lifts his goggles off, dropping them to the floor. Through two holes in the bandages, Cliff sees a pair of eyes colored strange staring back at him. Cliff understands what Larry is offering now. 

 

Cliff unravels the bandages slowly, carefully, tenderly, as Larry shrugs his jacket off. 

 

“Will you want me after this?” Larry asks as Cliff exposes him.

 

Cliff finds an answer soon after, metal fingers tangled in Larry’s bandages. “You know the answer, Lar. Always.” 

 

All of the bandages fall to the ground, and Larry’s looking down.

 

Flesh ruined, scarred, every detail Cliff memorizes, Larry’s eyes are the most striking thing about him, which is saying a lot. Scleras completely black, the iris a brilliant, nearly glowing white. He doesn’t have hair, and he looks burned. Cliff feels like wincing, because he imagines it hurts. Larry nearly cowers, but Cliff doesn’t allow him to.

 

Cliff cups Larry’s face. “Not as ugly as me, I’ll be honest.” He remarks, slowly leaning forward, pressing his forehead so carefully and gently against Larry’s. 

 

“I love you,” Larry says, and Cliff shatters. 

 

Only three words, and Cliff caves. 

 

“I love you, too,” Cliff responds. His hands wrap themselves around Larry’s waist, and Larry stiffens, but doesn’t hide. He eases, eyes shutting, eyelashes fluttering, breathing.

 

Hands on Larry’s hips, and Cliff pushes Larry back, back, back, “Let me,” He says, “Let me find some way to,” 

 

Cliff is real, and he feels alive.

 

With his back on the bed, having not been touched in decades, Larry looks up at the robotic husk hovering over him. “Please,” He says, “Touch me,” 

 

They make do with what they have, Larry rocking himself against Cliff’s thigh, head rolled forward against Cliff’s shoulder, grunting lightly. 

 

Cliff can’t feel anything, but he feels like he’s on fire, and it’s exhilarating. 

 

“I love you,” Larry says, voice weak. “Cliff, I love you,”

 

“I love you, too, Larry.”

 

Larry’s heart glows, and Cliff swears he sees Larry’s skeleton faintly.

 

Perfect worlds don’t exist, they’re fairy-tales, what-ifs, dreams, but that never stops a person from seeking one out, and with enough searching, they will find their world, not perfect, but real. There is a better world.

 

And in another time, in this world, far from this point, in a new bed that fits just right, Larry has a hand on Cliff’s chest.

 

“Say it again,” Cliff says, laughing gently.

 

“I’ve said it 10 times already, Cliff,” Larry responds.

 

Cliff holds Larry a little tighter, “Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

 

“Alright, alright, I love you, I love you very much,”

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

There is a better world.


End file.
